Pompeii
by bambi-and-the-cockroaches
Summary: It didn't compute, at first; it had been incomprehensible. Lying in bed beside him, his body spooned around mine, warm and content. It was worse, way worse, that he'd waited until afterward to tell me. Had he allowed me that one last time in his bed out of pity? Or had he been selfish, thinking only of his own pleasure?
1. Chapter 1

Oh, where do we begin?

The rubble or our sins?

* * *

I awaken to the pink glow of twilight outside the windows and the hum of the television in my darkened living room. It is still on the same channel I'd stared at blindly for hours earlier in the day until stress and exhaustion had finally taken their toll; until I could no longer take the voices in my head or the memory of what had occurred earlier that morning. I have a black belt when it comes repressing my pain, but this is pain beyond my capacity. And it is messing with my stomach.

'Scully, we need to talk.'

My heart is totaled, like a twisted heap of metal overturned on the shoulder of a highway heading nowhere.

'I've been thinking about us... About what's going on here.'

I watched the television for hours, with no particular interest, nothing except the vague compulsion to keep watching, as if by doing so I can somehow escape the truth of what happened. It is no use: I keep hearing his voice in my head, over and over, saying the same gut wrenching things.

'I think we're making a mistake.'

It didn't compute, at first; it had been incomprehensible. Lying in bed beside him, his body spooned around mine, warm and content. It was worse, way worse, that he'd waited until afterward to tell me. Had he allowed me that one last time in his bed out of pity? Or had he been selfish, thinking only of his own pleasure?

'We were friends, good friends. Partners... Maybe we should have kept it that way?.'

And then it had begun to sink in, the heavy, sick feeling that I knew too well. The one I had spent more years trying to avoid than I cared to count. I'd been screwed over, by the last person I'd ever expected to screw me over.

'You know what I mean, don't you, Scully?'

Of course, I do. It's the same old story, after all, isn't it? Just another careless betrayal of my heart. Except that this one is the very worst of all. I'd never seen it coming, not from him, not from Mulder. I had slipped quietly from his bed and from his arms.

'Scully? Listen to me...'

But what else had there been to say, really? That was my cue to get the hell out of there. Out of his apartment and away from his concerned eyes.

'I don't want our partnership to suffer...'

How could I ever work beside him again? Hard enough to be with him and not touch him, not reach out to him, when we'd been lovers. How could I ever look at him, hear his voice, without feeling that terrible, suffocating, all-consuming ache?  
'Scully, wait a minute, don't go.'

Had he really expected me to stay? Had he wanted me to simply agree with his decision and act like everything was fine and dandy?

For me, it had been the purest love I'd ever encountered. It had been magic; how could he not have felt it too?

I don't understand.

I can't understand.

'Scully, this is for the best. Trust me?'

Trust. Sure, Mulder. Whatever you say.

I'd trusted him enough, thank you very much; he'd given me a brief taste of heaven, of the most incredible happiness I'd ever known and I had allowed him in far enough to accomplish it, then he'd snatched it away so fast and so cruelly...

Does he know? How could he not know? I'd made my feelings for him clear, hadn't I?

I don't know which is worse: the concept that he hadn't known how deeply I loved him or the possibility that he'd known, but hadn't cared. Either way, the results are the same. He ended the romantic side of the relationship, and by extension, our partnership is going to suffer, no matter how strenuously we both might object to it because there is just no way I can continue to work with him after this. I need to request a transfer and get far, far away from him and these terrible emotions.

And I will miss him, oh god, will I miss him. I already do and I mourn for us, for what we had for so brief a time. As I watch the television, I alternate between mentally composing my request for reassignment and resignation; I'm not sure yet which one I will write.

My vision blurs, I curse under my breath and reach up to swipe at the fat, salty tears. Last time was enough, I cringe inwardly at the memory of my loss of control when I finally made it home. When it had all become more than I could carry, when the tears had begun to flow, had become sobs, had become heaves. Of the moment when my legs had buckled beneath me, when I'd fallen to the floor, sobbing unheard over the gush of the bath water flowing from the taps, crying helplessly, unable to stop. No relief, no release, only the relentless pain.

I'd thought that losing him to his quest would be bad. Having him willingly walk away was worse than I ever could have imagined.

God, I want to puke. My stomach feels like an acid pit.

"Scully, are you there?"

A voice, that voice, I turn my face to find Mulder standing in my doorway, holding the door open, with my spare key dangling from his hand. That reminds me, I swallow against the lump in my throat, I'm going to need it back. It hurts to look at him, it hurts to listen to him; his very presence hurts like hell and it is more than I can take right now. Again, I really want to puke. My stomach feels awful.

"What are you doing here?" I demand angrily.

He pushes the door closed behind him and rakes me with his eyes. I look like shit, I know it and there's no disguising it. But I refuse to cry in front of him. It's bad enough that I let myself get weak for him, so weak that he had the power to destroy me with a few simple words; he doesn't need to know about it. I won't give him the satisfaction.

However, my stomach has other ideas.

Before he can respond, I feel the acid lurch and a wave of hot bile begin to rise. I dash from the couch to the bathroom and make it just in time to throw myself to my knees in front of the toilet and lose the limited contents of my stomach. As I heave and silently curse my traitorous body, the heat of humiliation scalds my face.

Damn you to hell, Mulder. Leave me alone with my misery. You have no right to see this.

"Scully? Are you okay?" Soft, caring. He is killing me right here in my bathroom.

"I have a stomach bug," I snap at him and it's a lie. This is the result of stress. "Just go home, Mulder."

I can't look at him as my stomach lurches again. Beads of sweat dot my forehead, I feel dizzy and clammy, my hands are trembling, my insides are trembling. I vomit again. Why isn't he leaving? Why won't the ground open up and swallow me?

As I pray for the heavenly father to strike me down, Mulder goes and does something he really shouldn't...

He reaches out a hand and touches me.

His hand is touching my forehead, checking the pulse along the side of my neck, and I nearly pull a muscle trying to jerk away from him.

"Spare me your concern!"

It is too much pain to endure; his touch draws the emotions straight to the surface.

"Scully, you're sick," the caring in his voice shatters the last of my restraint.

"What do you care!? Go to hell Mulder!" My anger echoes loudly, bouncing off the bathroom tiles.

My blindly questing hand finds the toilet seat, and I lever myself off the floor and onto it, sinking down onto the cold plastic that feels feather-soft in my current state of sickness and fatigue. "I trusted you. You son of a bitch..."

A wave of nausea washes over me; I try to fight against it, but the world is slipping further and further out of focus with every passing second. Why is everything so weird and blurry all of a sudden? In my disorientation, my first instinct is to reach out toward Mulder; then the little voice pops up in the back of my mind to remind me that I can't do that, not anymore.

"Get out," I mumble faintly. "Go home..."

The black tunnel that is my vision closes and everything, including Mulder, fades out of existence.

Something cool and wet is on my forehead. It feels amazing as long as I stay still. Moving feels like falling, the world tilts at death-defying angles and I know I will slide straight into oblivion if I try going anywhere. I register that I am on my couch again. He must have carried me here.

In the darkness, there is a shadow. His beautiful face, gazing down at me. His voice, soft and clear against the incessant pounding in my head.

"You're very sick," came the syllables, quiet but distinct.

"You need to be cared for. You can send me home later," and the tone of his voice changes, dropping into the key of sadness.

"Just leave, Mulder. It's what you do best."

The shadow alters as his face changes. "Scully, please, I..."

"S'ok," I'm struggling to remain lucid. "S'alright... I know how it is."

He could have said something then, but I can't tell; the darkness thickens, veiling my vision, blocking my ears.

I return to the darkness.

Consciousness returns suddenly, along with an acid fist squeezing my stomach painfully. I sit up.

"Here," I hear Mulder's voice, and his hand is on my shoulder supporting me as I lean over and vomit into the plastic bucket he places between my knees. He holds my hair back as I throw up and fetches tissues and a big glass of water when it is over. I am just lucid enough to be embarrassed as hell about it and begrudgingly grateful that he is here because I probably couldn't have managed myself. I am resentful that I need him, and worse yet, that he should condescend to be here.

It would be better if he just went home. It is better to know where I stand. It is better to be alone than to hope and to trust. Trusting Mulder is evidently too strong a habit to break right away. My nausea is accompanied by a headache and stomach ache, but not the awful pounding disorientation from earlier. Silently, he holds the glass as I take a few sips of cold water. His eyes try to catch mine, but I can not make contact. Not yet. He sighs.

"It's the work," Mulder says, very quietly; and he looks at me, and waits.

"It's too dangerous," he continues, after a long moment of my silence, "Something will go wrong, something always goes wrong and I can't risk-

He stops abruptly, what little control he has is precarious at best.

He swallows hard. "We can't be partners and lovers. I can't do this."  
"So you're attempting to preserve the partnership by ending our relationship?" I ask slowly.

He blinks hard and nods. There are tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry Scully," he murmurs. "I'm so, so sorry."

I try to answer, but I really don't know what to say. The tears begin to drip down my cheeks; he reaches out to touch my face, but I can't help it, my instinctive reaction is to evade his hand.

"God, what have I done?" he whispers through his tears, and I close my eyes and let the grief wash over me again. I need to get away from him and clear my head for a little while and it looks like he's not planning on leaving anytime soon. Absently, I spare him and his tears only the briefest glance, as I retreat to the bathroom and lock the door behind me.

A shower clears away the last of the cobwebs. Yet all I can feel is the slow encroachment of the iceberg on my soul, no warmth whatsoever. Tears slip from my eyes and mingle with the shower water. I love him and I want him, all of him. But he doesn't feel the same way. This new development is staggering. How do I come back from this? How am I supposed to return to being just Agent Scully? His partner and nothing more.

I emerge from the shower, towel off and slip into my bathrobe. A flash of memory assails me, of showering with Mulder, sliding into the robe, his wet naked skin pressed against mine, the sound of his laughter. I thought he had been happy too. Content, like I had been. The sheer power of the image almost kills me.

Almost.

He is standing in the living room when I return, waiting for me. "You're feeling better?"

"Yeah." I move past him, wondering dimly if there is anything bland in the refrigerator that I might feel like eating. I feel hungry now that my stomach is empty.

"I ordered Chinese food for you," he shuffles into the kitchen after me, "there's egg-drop soup, you should stick to liquids."

"I'll be fine." Blunt as a hammer.

The concern in his voice is unsettling, it is undermining his rejection.

"The food will be here soon... I uh I guess should leave," he says hesitantly, standing in the kitchen doorway watching me. "If you want me to..."

And there it is, decision time. My choice, whether to give in to the tiny voice that screams silently to play nice, to try to repair the damage done to our friendship, our partnership. Or to let the ice chill my soul completely. My choice, whether to dare to trust him again.

There is only one choice I can make right now.

"I think you were right," I hear myself severing the last of the connection between us. "It was a mistake for us to get too close. I will need some time to consider my future with the x-files."

He hadn't been expecting it; his eyes widen and fill with tears. "Scully-"

"We can try to maintain a working relationship for now," I interject, "but I will be considering reassignment."

It's the right thing to do, the safe thing to do. The icy walls slam shut around me, sealing me in tight, numbing me so that I hardly notice the empty space where my heart used to sit. Mulder bites the inside of his cheek and nods; a tear slips down his face and where once I would have reached out to wipe it away, it doesn't even occur to me to try to touch him.

"If you don't mind, I have some things to do..." It was a dismissal: out of sight, out of mind.

"Yeah, sure." He turns away quickly, hiding his face, hiding his tears. Which is fine, because I really don't want to know about his grief; I'm too preoccupied with my own. He retrieves his keys, his coat and I wander out to the living room to see him go. A lump forms in my throat, I know that it is the last time, the last separation. Everything that had been precious to me, is about to walk out the door. Sorrow washes over me, a wave so huge that it dwarfs me, crushes me, drives away the color in the room and renders everything gray.

At the door, he pauses. "See you Monday?" He murmurs hopefully and the sound of it shatters what little is left of my broken soul. I almost call him back.

Almost.

"Goodbye, Mulder," I barely manage a whisper as I watch the last spark of hope in his eyes die.

The door closes behind him, and he is gone.

Alone, at last, I sink onto the couch to await the food delivery. I fumble with the remote until I find a mindless romantic comedy. The silence in the apartment thickens around the low drone of the television and the muffled sounds of my upstairs neighbors moving around forms a barrier around me, like cotton wool to soften any blows that might still reach me. It is oddly reassuring, this silence, this aloneness: it is what I am most accustomed to, after all. I allowed myself to become distracted for a little while, but I have come to my senses now; I am alone again, which means that I am safe.

The pain will fade, one day. That is the way life works. I'll survive.

I drag my attention back to the movie and try to feign interest.

I always survive.

On the screen, the female lead shares a passionate kiss with her co-star.


	2. Chapter 2

And the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we love.  
Grey clouds roll over the hills bringing darkness from above.

* * *

ONE MONTH LATER

Scully is having horrific night terrors. I can hear her, through the thin motel wall. Another nightmare; the second one tonight. If this is indicative of how she's been spending her evenings since the 'incident' it makes the dark circles under her eyes understandable. I've been waiting for something like this, a manifestation of the emotions she suppresses so well, but the reality is quite a bit worse than the expectation.

My first overwhelming instinct, is to go to her, but I have barely begun to repair the damage I caused us; we have only just gotten back to the point where she has dropped the prefix "Agent" from my name. Appearing in her room in the middle of the night might only make things worse. On the other hand, she is suffering, and it is terrible for me to witness her pain and to know that I am responsible for it. I have deep, deep regrets when it comes to how I handled our newly developing intimacy.

The only thing that makes any of this at all bearable is the absolute certainty that deep down, she still wants me. She still loves me. Her resignation has lain in her desk drawer, completed but as-yet-unsigned, since her return to the office. There is a myriad of ways in which she could shut me out but hasn't. She still wants me, I'm sure of it; but her pride or her pain or her fear or possibly a combination of all three is keeping her from trusting me, from reaching for me.

It is solely up to me to repair the damage I have caused because I know she won't meet me halfway. She isn't going to make this easy. Left to her own devices, Scully will remain like a turtle hiding in its shell forever. Shying away from any future pain. I owe her so much more than that, I owe her a way back home, especially since I was the one to drive her into hiding.

I fucked up. I thought I was doing the right thing and instead I fucked up. How could I have not known how deeply I would hurt her?

I guess it's because I didn't realize what I was saying. I freaked out and wanted some breathing room, a bit of time to reflect on what was happening, a chance to really process what we were doing and how it would impact the work and how the work would impact the relationship. Our work is dangerous, there is every chance that I could lose her at any given moment. It has almost happened before, a number of times. I had no idea how I would handle that as her lover. I wanted a return to the safety of friendship, of partnership, while I pondered how I might assimilate all the new emotions into my life and my work. I only wanted to take a step back, to come to terms with the knowledge that I had found the one woman I could honestly see myself spending the rest of my life with...

Instead, I fucked it all up. I broke her heart with my uncertainty.

In retrospect, it is all so clear. I told her it was a mistake. Why did I say that? Why did I let her think that? I didn't mean it, honestly. The sound of her nightmare filters through the plaster, bringing tears to my eyes. There was less distance between us on the first day we met, even after I insulted her thesis. She screams my name and that reinforces me; I am up on my feet and moving toward her room before I am even aware of it.

She is curled into a fetal position, blankets and sheets twisted around her legs; she is clutching the pillow and crying in her sleep and the sight of her hurts, God it hurts as if someone has shoved a red hot poker into my chest. Without thinking twice, I crawl onto the bed and curl myself around her, holding her as tightly as I can. "Scully," I whisper into her ear, kissing her cheek, hoping that she can feel my presence through the nightmare.

"Wake up," I croon, "wake up, Scully," I kiss her again, smoothing sweat dampened hair away from her forehead, and all at once she comes awake; startled eyes flick around the room, registering her surroundings. It pains me that her first waking action is to move away from me, to put as much physical distance between us as she possibly can on the surface of the bed.

"What're you doing here?" she rasps, sitting on the edge of the bed furthest from me and glaring while rubbing at tired eyes with a fist.

"You called for me," I say steadily, determined not to let my own ache rise to the surface.

"Well, I'm fine. Go back to bed," is her next statement, delivered in a curt tone. Unsteadily, she rises to her feet and staggers off to the bathroom.

I think about it, while she is in there, whether to stay or go. But this is the first opening of any kind, the first tiny crack in the wall of tension between us, and I can't let the opportunity pass. Who knows when there might be another? And whether it might be too late. So I am still sitting on her bed when she emerges and I brace myself against her frosty gaze. "I thought I told you to leave," she says, with as much open hostility as I've ever heard from her.

It almost causes me to react, but I hold firm against the impulse to run from the confrontation. "Don't you think this has gone on long enough?"

"Oh? I thought this is what you wanted," there was a note of bitter victory in her voice.

"I didn't know what I wanted!" I insist, frustrated with her icy treatment.

"And now you do?"

Her question stops me dead in my tracks; I have no quick reply ready and after a moment of silence, she snorts as if amused. It is a bitter sound, acidic even, the very opposite of laughter. "That's what I thought."

"I miss you," I say earnestly, not knowing what else to say.

"Yeah, I'll bet; me, or the warm body you were fucking every night?"

In the first instant, I am stunned; in the second, a bright spark of fury ignites inside me. How dare she even suggest that? How dare she trivialize the closest thing to heaven I have ever felt in my entire life. I made an error in judgment, but the feelings were always real. I never doubted those. They were precious to me.

I hear her small gasp of surprise, at the moment of contact. My hand shoots out and closes around her elbow and I yank her down onto the bed. She lands on her back, legs sprawled in both directions. She stares up at me, eyes wide and nervous as I lean over her. My actions have caught her completely off-guard. Her pain, I can understand, her desperate fear of betrayal, all of that makes sense to me. What I can't comprehend is her viciousness, her intent to hurt me.

"Do you really want to break me, Scully? Is that what you need to make this right?"

My words seem to strike a chord; her face softens a tiny bit. "Maybe that's all I've got," she murmurs.

"No it's not," taking advantage of the lull, I press my lips to hers and kiss her gently.

"Leave me alone," she mutters, turning her face away.

"You could forgive me." I force another kiss on her, this time on her turned cheek.

"Back off, Mulder!" Her voice raises almost to a shout, anger growing.

"Scully, I can't. I love you."

It takes me a second to realize what I just said; my cheeks flare red, and my eyes widen anxiously, awaiting her reply.

Another sound that might have been a laugh but wasn't. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"Of course it matters. I know you feel it too."

Her jaw is set indignantly against my last words. "Not anymore."

"I know you do," I assure her softly, gentle fingers running through her hair. "You can't pretend with me."

"Why not?" It is a challenge, but there is less anger in her tone, now. I detect the first strains of defeat; I take that as an encouraging sign.

"Because I know you," I inform her.

"Right." Her casual disdain infuriates me.

"Do you truly believe that this isn't hurting me, too?" I am trying to reign in my temper and she does the same with her tears.

"Mulder, you have no idea what you took from me. I was prepared to face the consequences of losing you. But not... not like that. Not the way it happened. I wasn't prepared for that. It was your choice." Her voice is so forlorn, so broken, that I can't stop myself from embracing her.

Her body stiffens in her arms, resisting my touch as if it is more than she can bear, but I hold on, pressing her down into the mattress with my torso, feeling that if I let go of her now, we'll drift so far apart that I will never reach her again. "It was the wrong choice," I insist. "What we had... It wasn't a mistake. It wasn't a mistake to love you."

After awhile, very, very gradually, I feel her relax beneath me. She buries her face in the space between my neck and shoulder and it's only when the first warm droplet splashes against my skin do I realize that she is crying. I hadn't realized how completely I held her heart in my hands. If she gives me another chance, I am never going to mess this up again. For her sake and for my own. I can't lose this woman, not by my own hand.

My grief has been so close to the surface, ever since the night I left her apartment; it seems that I have been constantly struggling to hold the pain at bay. There had been times at work, listening to her too-formal phrasing of my rank and name, when I'd been sure I was about to burst into tears or fly into a rage and the only thing that had stopped me was my conviction that it would push her right over the edge and out of my life for good. Right now I am free to shed a tear for her, for the heart that has been scarred so badly that even the slightest blow can constitute a horrific wound.

I feel her shift beneath me and the fear surges up within. I am almost certain that she is going to push me away. Instead, her arms snake around my waist and she latches on tightly and I start crying all over again from sheer relief. If she can still reach out to me, we haven't lost everything; it isn't all gone. We can rebuild what has been demolished. It doesn't have to be over for us.

"I love you," I tell her, striving to keep my voice steady despite the lump in my throat. "I love you so much, and I'm so, so sorry."

The truth, as plain and pure as I can make it.

She doesn't reply, but I feel her grip on me tighten.

I hold her, long past the point when both our tears have stopped, until she stops shuddering, until her breathing is even. I stroke her hair and feel something in me shatter when resolutely, she pushes against me, demanding freedom from the embrace.

"Um, I gotta get some sleep," she says, not meeting my eyes.

Oh, no, you don't Scully. I'm not letting go of you. Not now and not ever again.

"Sure," I say casually, pulling on the quilt until it is straight and fluffing up the pillows. "That's what I had in mind."

"I meant alone." But she doesn't resist, she crawls into the bed, under the covers.

"I think we've both had enough time alone," I tell her softly.

"Mulder..." A long, heavy sigh. "I'm not going to get rid of you, am I?"

"You don't really want that." I don't wait for her to respond; I have the feeling that she still doesn't know what she wants.

I crawl into bed beside her and she rolls over onto her stomach, with her face turned away.

I let my fingertips wander over her back, applying enough pressure through the silk of her pajamas, making sure to nudge all the sweet spots I'd discovered on previous pleasure missions. My fingertips stray across her shoulder blades and I feel her shiver as I dip between them. Finally, I have won this battle. She won't be struggling against me any more tonight. Tomorrow might be a different story, but tonight I am victorious.

I bestow soft wet kisses on the back of her neck, nothing more. It is imperative that I advance with utmost care. She needs reassurance and comfort and love to counter the weight of her self-imposed exile. The wrong move, the wrong word, any mistake right now could be disastrous; she is so vulnerable. The suggestion of sex has the potential to destroy this fragile moment and it's not why I'm here.

The mildest caresses send tremors through her; I can sense in her the desperate need for contact. My hands glide over her, every part of her back, neglecting not even an inch. More kisses, more and more, moving slowly over her neck, her cheek, her temple until she turns her face toward me. I claim her lips, hearing her soft plaintive cry and feeling her sudden complacency, knowing that she is mine, whether she likes it or not.

Before she has time to recover her defenses, while her resistance is still at its lowest ebb, I wrap myself around her and my heart nearly bursts when she rolls into me and slides her arms around me in return.

"I don't know if this is going to work." Her voice is sleep-slurred.

She is asleep before I can object, so I hold her and listen to her deep breathing for awhile.

It doesn't matter how long it takes. I'll keep the faith for the both of us.

[END STORY}


End file.
